


The Four Times Harry's Hair Made Draco Jealous (and the one time it didn't)

by Annesterling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Breakfast, Everybody knows, F/F, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Jealous, M/M, Quidditch, Secret Santa, Sex Hair, Snowball Fight, and seamus is not making draco's life easy, especially seamus, scared potter, you wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annesterling/pseuds/Annesterling
Summary: Basically, Draco is permanently jealous because Harry can't control his hair.





	1. Breakfast (Pansy Knows)

It is no secret that Harry Potter’s hair is atrocious. Honestly, it drives Draco absolutely mad. He couldn’t say it made him feel  _ jealous _ . Well, until the start of eight year, anyway. The first time was at breakfast.

Draco was sitting at the Slytherin table--or what  _ used _ to be the Slytherin table before McGonagall had announced that the House tables were dissolved--and trying to ignore the pointed stares he could always feel on his skin these days. When the great hall doors swung open again, his eyes were pulled away from his potions essay, drawn to whoever was storming into the hall so late.

Potter was running into the hall, tugging futilely at his tie, bag flopping open, and hair even more debauched than usual. It stuck up in ways that made Draco’s blood rush to places he really didn’t need it to be during breakfast time. The man looked cast around wildly for a moment before spotting what he was looking for. No surprise when it turned out to be Granger, the Weaslette, and Lovegood, all clustered in the middle of the next table and holding court as Draco had once done. When Potter finally made it over, he slammed down his bag and panted, appearing to have sprinted all the way from Gryffindor Tower in time to make it for breakfast. 

Granger said something, rolling her eyes and Potter laughed, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. Before he could sit, the Weaslette rose from her seat, far too close to Potter considering the whole school knew they had broken up early on, and swiped her fingers through the raven’s nest atop Potter’s hair, presumably trying to make it look less like the man had just been shagged in a broom closet.

The sudden flash of jealousy that rose up inside Draco almost made the blonde boy choke on his cuppa. As it was, he did have to act quickly to avoid destroying his 16 inch essay on complex, moon-cycle based potions. Never had he wanted to be ginger as badly as he did in that moment. When he finally pulled his eyes from the pride of Gryffindors--and Potter with his sex hair--he realized Pansy was staring at him. He raised an eyebrow in question, taking another sip of his tea. She said nothing, just gave him a knowing snort before turning back to her work.


	2. Potions (Seamus Knows)

When he thinks about, Draco really isn’t sure how Potter ended up in Potions with him this year. With the exception of sixth year, the Gryffindor had been complete rubbish when it came to the work. Even more of a mystery that how Potter had made it into the class was how the dark-skinned man had managed to become his partner. It was torture, and not in the way it would have been in first year, when Draco was still convinced the weird feeling in his chest that started around Potter was hatred. It was torture because Potter was entirely too fit for his own good. And, of course, they were now brewing amortentia. Honestly, the Ministry might have given Draco a light sentence but clearly the universe was not.

The dungeon room was humid and it made the hair at Potter’s nape curl. Every corner of the room smelled like broom polish, grass, and spice, an aroma that was distinctly  _ Harry _ . Draco was fighting the insane urge to thread his fingers into the mop of curls to his right. To make it worse, Potter was absently biting his bottom lip as he concentrated on preparing the next round of ingredients--they’d figured out a few potions back that Potter’s skills were more suited to preparation than to actually  _ brewing _ the potion--and his teeth pressed a divot into the skin that made Draco yearn to lean over and smooth it with the pad of his thumb. Or lick it away. He wasn’t entirely sure which. Trying to shake away the mental image, Draco moved to add the pearl dust when a loud shout of “Oi! Harry!” nearly made him jump out of his skin.

Finnegan was on the other side of the room, hand cupped around his mouth like a megaphone. “Mine smells like Dean. What about you? Bet you it smells like- Ouch!” The man stopped for only a moment to rub at the spot where his boyfriend had jabbed him in the ribs before continuing. “Betcha I can guess what it smells like.”

He trotted across the room to their station, carelessly draping himself over the worktop and nearly upsetting a vial of rosewater. Without hesitation, the Irishman lifted his hands to know them in Harry’s hair, tugging to pull the man’s ear toward his mouth. Potter’s face turned three shades dark as he blushed and tried to stammer out a denial. Rolling his eyes in a way that seemed to say  _ Sure, mate, I believe you _ , Finnegan laughed, pressed a kiss to the other man’s cheek, and then strolled away… but not before meeting Draco’s eyes in a very  _ knowing _ way.

Finnegan had done a wonderful job of stirring up the beast in Draco’s chest. Harry’s hair was a disaster. It looked like he had been thoroughly shagged and the dumbstruck look on his face wasn’t helping matters. See the blush, the glazed eyes, the mussed hair was slowly burning Draco alive--he actually checked to be sure he hadn’t managed to set his robes aflame. Every breath intensified the need to twist his own fingers into that dark mess of hair and  _ claim _ Harry. But that was ludicrous.

Instead, he dumped his handful of pearl dust into the cauldron, reduced the flame and tried not to breathe in anymore of Potter’s scent than necessary. Looking over showed that Harry was still half bent over the work top, knife dangling limply from one hand and glasses askew. With a long-suffering sigh, Draco reached over and shoved him. “Planning to gawk at Finnegan’s arse all day, Potter? Or were you planning on finishing this potion?”


	3. Hogsmeade (Hermione Knows)

Luna Lovegood was a saint, Draco had decided early into the year. She came and ate dinner with him and Pants every other day. The first time she had taken a seat across from them, Luna had dreamily said, “I don’t blame you, you know. None of us do,” and went about buttering her roll. “Would you pass the cider, Draco?” And that had been the only time they had spoken about her time in Draco’s cellar.

Somewhere around the third Hogsmeade trip, Luna had started dragging them along to The Three Broomsticks with her pack of Gryffindors after Pansy had mentioned they weren’t very welcome in Hogsmeade these days. This, of course, put Draco in very close proximity to Potter and his damnable hair.

Just before Christ, as the students were trolling the shops in Hogsmeade for last minute gifts, it had started snowing. Everybody welcomed the chance to enjoy some winter weather before returning to their studies, Potter especially so. Draco wasn’t too thrilled by the whole affair. He could get cold and damp just as easily on the Hogwarts grounds, thank you very much. Potter, on the other hand, seemed like a small child, flinging himself into snowpiles, his dark skin standing out against the whiteness as he smiled and laughed.

His troupe of scarlet-clad idiots seemed to share Potter’s mentality, deciding the day would be best spent in the stuff, building forts and flinging snowballs. The Slytherins had no plans to join in, planning to head further into town. But, just as Draco had reached the edge of the clearing, something cold and icy smashed against the back of his head. Turning, he saw Potter standing there, holding another snowball, weight shifted cockily to the side. “Scared you’ll lose, Draco?” And that did it. Draco bent to scoop up his own handful of snow, saying, “We’ll see who loses, Harry.” He would like to say it was the challenge that made him stay. Deep down he knew it was the warmth that spread through him at the use of his given name.

After what must have been hours of fumbling around in snow--which was more fun than the Slytherin would ever admit--they called an end to their games and marched into town, intent upon warming themselves by the fire in The Three Broomsticks. It was around this time Draco decided Potter was actually trying to kill him. As soon as they made it inside, Harry ripped his cap from his head and ruffled his hair, presumably shaking of snow.

Before Draco could fully grab hold of his sudden  _ need _ to pull his fingers through that wild mane, Granger reached up and removed a chunk of ice from Potter’s hair with a sighed, “Honestly, Harry.” Her eyes met his as she turned back to her Weasley and, from the sudden crease that appeared between her eyebrows, she  _ knew _ . She knew that jealousy was clawing at his thought, tearing into his belly, making his insides bleed. He wanted to be able to be as gentle and soft with Harry as Hermione was. He  _ needed _ to be.

Potter followed her gaze, meeting Draco’s eyes around Granger’s bushy hair. The blond man couldn’t stand it. Irrationally angry, he snapped out, “Problem, Potter?” before slamming back his shot of firewhiskey and storming out the door. Inside he could hear Ron asking “What was that about?”

Draco took a deep breath of the frigid air, adjusted his cloak, and slowly made his way back to the castle.


	4. Studying (Everybody Knows)

It was the end of March and many of the eighth years were sprawled in their common room, studying for the upcoming exams. Draco found himself nearly shoulder to shoulder with Harry on one of the many couches. Hermione took up the rest of the space, surrounded by piles of books and parchment--her dedication to studying was intense and Draco had found it intimidating at first. Weasley was sprawled in an armchair across from them and the Patil twins were draped over the back of the couch, prodding at Harry’s mop of hair experimentally.

Studying was distracting, not because of the whispered conversations that were being held, but because Harry was so close Draco could  _ feel _ the heat coming off of him. Every time Harry moved, their arms would brush against each other and it was driving the blond mad. It certainly didn’t help matters that Potter seemed entirely unable to sit still.

Eventually, Harry seemed to give up. He groaned and stretched, throwing his head back against the couch cushions and complaining when Parvati pulled his hair. Draco bit his lip to keep himself from staring hungrily at the strong, dark curve of Harry’s throat, tightening his grip on his quill. He allowed himself a small peak from the corner of his eye and nearly had a heart attack when Harry lifted his hands suddenly, stretching them above his head before dropping them again, one arm trailing the back of the couch. His hand settled comfortably on Draco’s shoulder. When had Harry stopped being scrawny? It was clear to Draco that Potter had filled out rather nicely, arms muscled perfectly.

“You know, Harry, I love your hair,” Padma said as she attempted to smooth back Harry’s curls with a comb. “I don’t know why you want us to tame it for this thing at the Ministry.”

Parvati giggled in agreement, adding “It’s just right.  _ Perfect _ sex hair, really.” She smeared some sort of hair potion between her palms before reaching into the mess and moving skillfully. “Just… perfect. With this hair, you could be a sex god.”

The now familiar burn of jealousy started to smolder in Draco’s gut. Harry’s hand moved farther up his neck, unconsciously stroking the tender skin there, and the beast settled slightly. At least until Seamus chimed in from his seat in Dean’s lap. “Oh you bet his hair is perfect. Got a feel of it meself during Potions that one day. Made to have hands twisted up in it, really.”

And that was the last straw, the monster uncoiled ferociously, making Draco’s back snap rod-straight. He felt Harry’s hand pause from the sudden tensing of his shoulders. “I need to study,” he managed to grind out past the jealous constricting his throat. “You’re all being entirely too loud.” Suddenly frantic and in a hurry, Draco slammed his book shut and began to gather his things. He jerked himself roughly from the couch and moved toward the door.

“Draco, wait!” Harry reached out and snagged the back of his jumper. For a moment, the Slytherin almost stopped. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stay there, that close to Harry. It was torture to be unable to touch him, to  _ want _ this much. Staying meant climbing into Harry’s lap, digging his fingers into the nest of hair, and kissing him so hard their lips bruised. He  _ couldn’t _ stay. So he yanked himself free and fled the room, feeling everybody’s looks of  _ knowing _ as they burned into his back.


	5. Quidditch (Even Harry Knows)

“Bloody hell, he’s done it! Malfoy’s finally done it! For the first and last time, Malfoy has bested Potter and caught the snitch!”

And that is all of the announcement Draco heard before the roar of the crowd drowned out everything else. He held the small golden ball high, whooping in triumph. Looking down, he was surprised to see that it wasn’t just Slytherin cheering his name. People clad in every house color were running down to the pitch to congratulate him and console the Gryffindors as they all came down from the sky.

Making a victory lap, Draco felt his chest expanding. He felt giddy and light. This is what it felt like to  _ beat Harry _ fair and square. Never mind that it was his last game,  _ their last game _ . Showing off, Draco turned a quick series of flips and the flew down to meet his team. But it wasn’t his teammates that swept him up in their arms. It was Harry, smelling like sweat and mud and stormclouds.

“You did it,” the man crowed as he hefted Draco into the air, arms tight around his thighs.

Looking down at him fondly, Draco shouted back, “Shouldn’t you be more upset, Harry? After all, your precious lions lost.” Below him, Harry’s hair curled wildly, wet from the rain and blown into knots by the wind. And Potter was smiling up at him, hands clasped firmly into his quidditch robes. Everything was so perfect, so surreal.

Before he knew what he was doing, Draco was sliding his hands into Harry’s hair, fingers knotting in the tangled curls. Breathlessly, he bent to press his mouth to Harry’s from his high perch. Harry didn’t miss a beat, kissing him back instantly as the world slipped into place. No, that wasn’t the world. It was Harry putting him down so that his feet were once again on the ground, and pulling away.

Draco felt his heart fall from his chest, plummeting until it hit the ground at his feet. Had he been wrong? Were the touches and the looks not what he’d thought? Had he made a mistake?

But then Harry was pulling him in again, bringing him so close they touched from chest to thigh. Draco’s gasp was cut off by warm lips pressing against his own, a tongue swiping against his own. Now the world began to spin and Draco felt light headed, hand grabbing great handfuls of Potter, his hair, his robes, anything he could reach. He didn’t know how long it lasted, only that it was cut short by Seamus popping in to sing-song something about winning a bet. Draco could only laugh as he surveyed the man he had just rather publically snogged.

The man’s dark cheeks were flushed, green irises obscured by blown pupils, lips swollen. And, when Draco untangled his hands from where they had finally landed in Harry’s hair, the curls were arranged into a perfect mess. For once, Draco wasn’t jealous at the sight. He was elated and leaned in eagerly to claim Harry’s mouth again, cutting the man off mid-sentence. The beast in Draco’s chest began to pur.


End file.
